Bitter Water (18 page)

She paused. ‘That sort. But maybe not the bed bit. Come on, Brodie. Your mum needs to see her wee boy.’ With that, Sam opened her door and stepped out.

I should have known better. Instead of an awkward
what am I doing here, what is she doing here with my wee boy
stilted conversation between Sam and my mother, they were nattering away like long-lost cousins over two pots of tea. They sat either side of the blackened iron fireplace in the two winged chairs that had come into the world long before I did. I took the battered pouffe in the middle and let them get on with it. Sam seemed oblivious to the smallness and darkness of the room and scullery, and the hole-in-the-wall bed masked by a floral curtain. My mother’s white head had been bobbing away in agreement to Sam’s comments on the plans for the new National Health Service. Then I realised they were talking about me.

‘He’s really no bother.’

‘He got tidier after he joined the army.’

‘They should all have to do it.’

‘Without the shooting, though.’

That seemed to be my cue. ‘Mum, about this man, this Mr Lord.’

‘Ah’m sorry, son, if it upset you. I hope I haven’t done anything wrong?’

‘It’s not you, it’s him. I don’t think you’re in any danger but I think he was trying to get a message to me.’

‘Oh my goodness. Who is he?’

I swithered about telling her the truth, about frightening her all the more.

‘Have you been reading about the so-called vigilantes in Glasgow?’ She nodded. ‘Well, I think he’s the leader. He broke into Samantha’s house three nights back and tried to get me to write something in the
Gazette
. We didn’t and now he’s unhappy.’

‘Well, he won’t be getting any more shortbread from me in future, that’s for sure.’

‘Mrs Brodie, Douglas and I were worried about you. Would you like a wee holiday in Glasgow? I’ve got a big place. You could have your own room.’

I stared at Sam. She stared back as if to say,
Well, what exactly were we planning to do here; just send your mum into a panic and tell her not to open her door to strange men?

‘No, no, lassie. I’m fine. But it’s awfu’ kind of you. I’ve got plenty of good neighbours around. Pit men. Big strong fellas.’

‘But not during the day. Sam’s right, Mum.’

‘Sam?’

‘Samantha. She’s right. Just for a few days. Till we know what this Highlander is up to. You’ve always liked a trip to Glasgow. I’ll take you to tea at Miss Cranston’s.’

She went quiet. Glory be. She was actually considering Sam’s offer. Was she so worried? As far as I knew, my mother hadn’t stayed away from home since my father died, fifteen years ago. They sometimes recounted their honeymoon adventure: a stolen night or two in digs in Blackpool before the war – the first one – but that was it.

‘Go on, Mrs Brodie. It’ll be fun.’

Mum’s face softened. Was that what it took? Fun? My mother wanted some fun? Her face suddenly dissolved.

‘I cannae. I just cannae.’

‘Why not, Mrs Brodie?’

‘I don’t have a case. I’ve no’ much to put in it, mind. But I don’t have one.’

‘What do you put your messages in, Mrs Brodie?’

‘If I can call you Samantha, you’re to call me Agnes. Och, it’s just an old shopping bag. What would that look like going into a grand hoose like yours?’

‘Agnes, that would be absolutely fine. You just need a bag to keep your stuff together. We’ve got the car outside.’

‘A car!’

I gazed in wonder at this transaction. My mother, who never went further than the local shops, was bustling about like a girl, eyes sparkling, as she put together her two bits of clothes; basically a change of blouse and underthings and her Sunday skirt and coat. Sam bustled with her to share the excitement, and to assure her she didn’t need towels or bed linen. Mum rolled up a couple of rashers of bacon and some butter in case they went off, double-wrapped them in brown paper and put them in her bag.

With a final check of the windows and a turn of the big key in the lock, we left the close. The telepathy that operates in the tenements ensured that at least three of Mum’s white-haired pals materialised to cluck her on her way. The big car parked outside was the draw. Only the factor arrived by car. The fluid lines of the Riley had already attracted some admiring neighbours. Mrs Cuthbertson said she’d take Mum’s turn on the stairs in case she was gone longer than two days. There was a brief debate about who sat in the front seat; Sam won and insisted Mum join me up front, then we were off, with much waving to the crowd, like royalty.

As I headed up the Glasgow Road and across the moors, I saw her face was flushed.

‘Am I going too fast, Mum?’

‘Not at all, Douglas. Not at all.’

I caught Sam’s face in my rear mirror. She stuck out her tongue at me.

TWENTY-TWO

S
unday was spent settling my mother in. It didn’t take long to hang up her few things and position her soap and flannel in the spare bathroom. At first I noticed her going round touching things, sliding her hand down the polished wood bannister of the deep stairwell, feeling the good cloth of the curtains. She didn’t say much and I could see her adjusting, measuring her own home against this spacious mansion. But there came a moment over her second cup of tea when I saw her face settle and her shoulders relax. My mother had never judged another’s worth by their finery or fanciness. By the time we’d had an afternoon’s good walk in the park, and listened to the wireless together in the evening, she was at home.

Next morning I came down to the kitchen for an early cup of tea before my swim, but not early enough. Sam and my mother were scrubbed and fully dressed and sitting at the breakfast table nursing their own cups. They looked up conspiratorially as I came in.

‘Morning, Douglas. I was just saying how lucky you are to be here.’

‘I am.
You
are. We have a generous landlady.’

‘Who’s being paid to have company. Everyone wins,’ Sam said. ‘Douglas, we’ve been talking. I’m calling the police in. This has got completely out of hand.’

‘You think? But what do you expect them to do? Apart from driving you daft with stupid questions.’

‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘But it just looks gie strange for an advocate not to call the police when there’s a crime. As though I didn’t believe in them. That’s how the vigilantes started. And your old pals are still in the huff that we didn’t call them when the Marshals broke in and waved guns at us. They didn’t take kindly to hearing about it first in the
Gazette
.’

‘You’re right. When you speak to them, could you ask them to call Kilmarnock nick and get a bobby to keep an eye on Bonnyton?’

‘And here. We could do with a nice young officer or two patrolling outside.’

I nodded. ‘I’d better get going. I have a column to write. What will you two be doing?’

‘I’ve got a case today. Agnes says she want to see a court in action.’

‘You’ll be bored, Mum.’

‘I certainly won’t. It’s a
fraud
case!’ Her eyes were shining.

‘Alleged fraud, Agnes. Alleged.’

It turned out that we didn’t need to go looking for the police. Waiting for me in Eddie’s office were the boys in blue. They didn’t look happy. Sangster was in civvies this time, having brandished his rank at me before. But Sergeant 71 was in his hot tunic, buttoned to the throat. He was waving the latest vigilante letter at me in accusation. He was excited. Or maybe suffering heat exhaustion.

‘The last time we were here, Brodie, you denied having any links with these . . . hoodlums. We want to know why he wrote . . .’ He peered at the letter, ‘“
Major
Brodie? Now we know who you are and what you did. Your secrets are out. It’s time to choose sides.”’

I looked at Big Eddie. He shrugged in embarrassment.

Sergeant 71 continued, ‘What
did
you do,
Mister
Brodie? What are these secrets?’

‘Look, do you have a name or are you just a number?’

His virgin cheeks adopted deeper points of red. ‘Murdoch.’

‘Sergeant Murdoch, we’re dealing with nutters here, I think you’ll agree. Why should I know what their ravings are about?’ I took out a cigarette, lit it and added to the fug.

‘And whose side
have
you chosen?’ he persisted.

He was a dogged little choirboy, but I had to admit he was asking the right questions. He was getting approving nods from Sangster. I went on the attack.

‘Truth? Maybe these guys hoped I’d be a megaphone for their mad ideas. I’m good at publicising evil deeds by corrupt coppers!’

Sangster coloured. His neck went pink. ‘The point is, Brodie, you seem to be a bit too involved. Mr Paton here tells us that you’re even phoning them. You’ve got us wondering whether this hostage stunt really happened or . . .’

‘Or what, Sangster?’

‘Or whether you’ve gone over to the other side!’

‘Have you been at the sherry this early in the day, Sangster? Do you really think I made up a story about them breaking into my home and holding my landlady and me at gunpoint?’

‘But why did they? Your article doesn’t say why. Just some guff about them wanting you to write nice stories about them.’

‘Why? Other than being mad bastards? All right, all right. We exposed their method for victim selection. That pissed them off. To make amends – in their twisted little minds – they demanded that the
Gazette
send a message to the good folk of Glasgow. That sins would be punished, even if the law decided otherwise.’

‘You said they had guns?’ The sergeant was wrestling with his hat and his notebook to scribble down my answers. This was better than traffic duties.

‘Handguns. Looked like Army-issue revolvers.’

‘Dressed?’

‘Pullovers. Probably Army surplus. And balaclavas.’

‘So you didn’t see their faces?’

‘No, but I can tell you one was a blue-eyed Highland Scot, the other Irish, northern Irish. The Highlander was the boss.’

I didn’t name Ishmael. It wasn’t his real name and his red hair and pale face could be seen on any street corner. I put them right on the phone contact – that they had phoned
me
– when we didn’t write what they wanted.

‘There’s another thing . . .’ I told them about the visit of the Highlander to my mother. That we now had her safely installed in Kelvingrove Park. This got them more agitated. I was able to say that Sam was calling the police this morning to report it.

‘If it’s the same man, according to my mother he had red hair and blue eyes.’ I thought this showed how open and cooperative I could be.

‘Address?’ asked the sergeant.

‘Whose? My mother’s or mine?’

‘Your digs. Landlady’s name.’

I told them.

Sangster perked up. ‘Campbell? Samantha Campbell, you said?’

I smiled. I hadn’t put Sam’s name in the article. ‘The very one. Advocate Campbell. She defended Hugh Donovan.’ I left the thought hanging in the air and watched its implications seep under the thin skin of Sangster.

TWENTY-THREE

W
hen I got to my desk there was another message, a small one, not threatening in any way. It was in Morag’s neat hand. A man – one of my old contacts – had returned my call. Bless her, she’d even signed off with a couple of kisses. The caller was an altogether nicer bloke than the bolshie boss of the vigilantes. It raised my mood. I decided that instead of phoning back I could use the fresh air. I strode off in the direction of the East End.

In a dusty street scarred with bomb-damaged tenements a small parade of shops huddled together. It included one of the chippies I used to frequent, being scarcely five minutes’ walk from Tobago Street nick. They were just clearing the decks in advance of the lunchtime trade.

‘We’re no’ actually open yet,’ said a wee dark-haired lassie. She was burling a mop around the floor like a dance partner at the Cameo.

‘I’m after Aldo. You look like one of his.’

‘Ah’m his dochter. Who’s asking?’

‘Douglas Brodie. I used to be a policeman round these parts. Before the war. Aldo’s an old pal.’

She sized me up and down using the same dark lustrous eyes as her parents. She turned and walked to the door behind the counter. ‘Faither! There’s somebody here fur ye. Says he used to be a pal o’ yours? A polisman?’ Said with incredulity as if she couldn’t credit the juxtaposition of ‘pal’ and ‘polis’.

There was a grumbling reply from within, then a figure emerged drying his hands on his apron. The apron looked more strained than ever round his comfortable girth. Aldo was a great one for testing his wares; to keep the quality up, he said. His black waxed moustache turned up in a great Neapolitan smile.

‘You’ve met my youngest and bonniest, Brodie?
Bella
Sophia. She has her mother’s looks, you can see.’

‘Faither!’